I Hang About Home Each Time in Tears

Waltz to the sound of guitar.

There were two of us at the open bus stop.

Thin April gloaming suppressed cold light of the street lamp. It lighted up from grey haze a boy fourteen years old in appearance in black slightly baggy feather bed with room for growth and woollen knitted cap up to his eyes. He had a guitar in his hands.

Express bus rolled up to bus stop. The boy bought a ticket, put it into his side-pocket carelessness and rose into salon. I came next. There were a lot of free places but I sat at a shorter distance to him for some reason.

- Why is this guitar without strings? - I couldn't help saying.

He didn’t answer right away. At first he put his musical instrument calmly down on his knees, pulled down the cap from his head set free blond disordered hair and only after that he told in detail:

- I went to a town, thinking it could been repaired. This year I’m leaving school by bayan class but I want to learn to play the guitar. I have taken another's for a week, it seems turned out good. This is the guitar of my father. He was killed when I was quite little. My mother doesn’t give me money for a new one. She grumbles: “Grow up and earn by yourself. I haven’t time for everything alone”.

He passed his fingers pensively over fingerboard divided by levels into frets and turned his head aside misted over window.

- It seems that you are a real musician if that is the case you leave special school.

- Real – unreal but I take part in recitals.

- It is amazing when someone has a talent! It feels that you have it all over.

Praise wasn’t seemed affecthim. (It doesn't make sense to me) He thawed out substantially. He smiled sad and gratefully. He sat to me half-turned. His look shined brightly with kindness.

- But I nearly gave up my music school once…

- Why so?

- I think everyone has runs of bad luck. It was everything not very well with me then at the end of school year. It turned out a lot of “poors” in term. I studied bad…very bad. I didn’t understand. I began to cram. It didn’t stick to me. The same with bayan: teacher shouted at me like water off a duck's back with me. At home mother shouted because of “poors” and bayan. I even took a knife and put it against the hand but then think…

Once I got up early. The first lesson is Russian. I didn’t do a home task. Aw shucks! It turns out “poor”. Everyone’ll shout at me again. Oh… In other subjects is the same. Well, maybe it’ll be good in drawing probably. Some more have bayan lessons. Good heavens! I’ll come home tired and have to do me homework. When this day will finish? And it doesn’t start yet.

I sit undressed in the dark, the bed is laid out, it’s warm. I touch wooden back of the bed, this varnish on the veneer, this own indentation. And when hated day’ll pass I touch it again. Ahead will be only desired night. (He was telling it forgot about me and I echoed him mentally).

Let between touches day’ll fly by fast.

In order that don’t see nothing.

In order to don’t hear everyone.

In order that my dream will wrap up paradise.

To seem like you’re free.

After this touch is darkness. Good. This is exactly reward. But day doesn’t allow you to reach it separating beginning from end. What is for space between them? The darkness is better than such light.

Each my morning became identically now. I didn’t tell about in someone earlier. I don’t know why I found plenty to talk about with you.

That time I’ve studied the third year in musical school. Elena Stepanowna the bayan’s teacher always found fault with me each time I came. It seemed to me that she shouts so and pick on only to me.

She has a wooden table and it’s stuffed wind something thundering. When I play she sets the correct rhythm tapping with her hand on the table but by this she strikes with anger on the table so that everything in the table jumps up and rumbles. I play in other rate she strikes with all her might it’s like she prompts wants to help but I get out of time all the same.

I hang about home each time in tears. I come. There is nobody at home. Mum is still at work. I sit alone in the dark and cry.

At once I came from school. We’ve just leant new musical composition. It turned out with me not for anything. I came and just cried. I couldn’t stop doing it. I’m thinking myself: “And what for do I need it? These solfeggio, intervals, scales, major keys, minor keys, everything. What for? I’ll study two years some more and she will shout at like this me two long years”.

I pulled out a clean sheet of paper from my math copybook and started to write by myself (nobody instructed me) that I want to leave musical school and ask to cross out me from the third form. Not in mum’s not in somebody’s else name it was on behalf of me. I wrote month, date, year and appended my signature. And I settled down right away as I took the decision. I thought:”Well, well”.

I decided that I won’t give my application right now. I’ll visit bayan’s lesson one more time and if she’ll only shout at me I’ll show my sheet of paper.

The letter will be like master-key.

I’ll be free. I’ll go along street quietly like everyone. There boys laugh:”What for do you need this bayan? To carry such huge thing! Let’s better play cards!” Bayan for them is like accordion which was played by old men until war.

The lesson will be next day. There is snow up to my knees at street. Not much of it thawed. Birches and poplars stretch on each side. I’ve never counted before how many of them there is. I hadn’t time for it. I always trembled before music lessons, nose to the ground. And here I made a plan: I’ll rise my head up now and how many birches I’ll see before myself such mark I‘ll get at the lesson.

I raised my head and not one, not two but four birches stroke my eyes at once. “Well – I was thinking- it’s good”. I can’t tell that I was sure in this mark but I became to desire it strongly.

I was coming at the lesson. I was greeting, taking my musical instrument, pushing up a chair to me by my leg, sitting. And she still wasn’t shouting at me…

I was getting m anuscript music book, opening the necessary page. It was etude without name. There are only continuous sixteenth notes.

I was trying to perfume etude. I wasn’t trembling. I was pushing keys quietly. I was stretching bellows smoothly not by jerks. And music was totally different. At first I did it simply for the sake of limbering up, tried to do it. It turned out. And afterwards I wasn’t stopping and playing straight from the beginning to the end.

I was imagining an aunt’s running:”Ti-di-di-di-di! Ti-di-di-di-di-di Ti-din-tin-ti!” He ran here:”Ti-didi-din! Tirilim-tim-tim!” It was running and running and running again. He was taking a straw, turned and running ti his aunt-hill again. My fingers were as his paws. They run as fast as his. If he runs faster you move your fingers faster too: “Ti-di-di-di-di!” It isn’t tarantula which hardly crawls:”Tyyy-tyyyy”.

Elena Stepanowna was looking at me silently only shaking her head approvingly. It’s really magic… “Good boy” – she praised.

She put beautiful four into my mark book and class register! It looks that she is not so bad by herself…

I came out of the club. I can’t believe it, standing on porch. It’s breathing easy. I’m looking aside so struck with surprise. I’m thinking:”What is if there were not four birches but two? She would put me two again?”

Now with bayan everything is fine. I want to learn playing guitar like my dad. My mother fell in love with him because of that. He played the guitar the best of all. He was the soul of company. Sometimes I think:”What an idiot I would be if I had given the letter”. Birches helped me. I kissed them not once in my thoughts.

I want to choose music and live with it all my life.

For example, somebody’ll join the university and will be agronomist, engineer or military man. Who needs them now? And music is everywhere. Car honks it is music. We speak with you it is music too. And this he stepped his feet two times and this is music.

- Is it really music?

- Yes, it is.

Before my first performance Elena Stepanovna extended me: “If in the hall will be someone of your near relations, mother or someone else, don’t look at them, don’t wave and don’t smile. Or you’ll be confused. Look over them at one point. Play for this point. Tell it:”Look the point how I play”. Speak to it. Let even lanterns will shine into your eyes. If you’ll be afraid play to the end all the same.

I came on stage. I was afraid. I sat on a table and began to play immediately. My knees were trembling. I compressed them strongly all the same. I pushed the buttons one can hear. “Di-di-di-di”. Everyone hears. Tremble with music. So many people… There are our boys they can laugh on me. And I’m alone such little. I was playing, playing. Bang! I did a mistake. I was wanting to cry and run behind the links.

And this time I remembered the teacher’s words and lifted up my head. But I stared not at the point. Suddenly I saw my father far away. He looked straight at me. And I began to play for him. People’s faces became imperceptible, diffuse. Everything disappeared around me. Only I am and he is.

I felt that I stopped trembling. I real played. Not only pushed the buttons thoughtlessness and stretched bellows. By now I was thinking about my fingers’ position. I was playing louder, quietly. I was following where was forte and where piano.

I played waltz “At the hills of Manchdjurii”.

- Good waltz.

At the beginning there is quiet music. I was playing for dad and imagine as if he wasn’t lieutenant as if at severe photo in his documents. He is general. He is grey completely. He sat and heard how I started playing. Music was coming. I was playing it quietly because he was in the main role. He stood up, looked for a pair for him. He found! He chose my mum. It means that I have to play louder from this place. It was his happiness. One part:”Tin-tin-tin. Tyyy-tyd-tydy-ta-datatatam-tada.” They were dancaing happy, smiling. Music was louder: “Tyy-tyt-tydy!” They looked in the faces of each other and there was a pause. Everything stopped for a moment then again began to spin. And I began to play crescendo with volume intensification.

I was learning piece half a year and now everything I worked hard shrank till two minutes of my performance. Not everyone can do it. But I learnt.

I think my father liked it.

It is pleasant and even little stirring.

I played to the end lowered my head and started crying with happiness. I ran away from the stage. I couldn’t see someone that time. The hill’s cheers followed me long.

At once I took my friend’s guitar. Mum came into my room and saw I was sorting out chords. She told me^ “Something familiar. Like dad played”.

She came out I laid aside another’s guitar and took dad’s one. I touched it, stroked. Once upon a time my dad touched it. I had an idea^ when he didn’t shave he had bristle he rubbed against my cheek and it became red. I was even happy, pleased. I remember it. And now I touched the guitar which remembers his touches. I wanted to play waltz “At the hills of Manchdjurii” for dad but with guitar. That he was happy for me and mum. If he were with us he would play it by himself for mum.

I asked to repair it in town but it wasn’t taken. They said:”No, it’s very old. The finger-board has cracked that sp new strings won’t help. There are no miracles”.

Boy became silent and kept it till the bus stop.

The most important was said.

Before he went out he shook me firmly like a man by the hand and said at parting:

- Tomorrow it’ll be holiday’s performance in our club. I’ll perform too. Come and visit us.

The boy came on the ice side of the road and pressed the guitar to is breast stepped into darkness. I even didn’t ask his name.

The door was slammed and the bus advanced.

++++

The performance in the club ended. Everyone noted the bayans performance. Today he played especially good. Spectators went away slowly and only music unseen waves was broadly spread in the wide hall.

The boy came to dress. And here senior watchman old lady carried out from side room new acoustic guitar packed up into polyethylene:

- It was asked to be given to you. I don’t know by whom.

Experts are mistaken. Miracles happen!

It was Easter.